| Thomas Hunter is
VJ Emsi's colleague and fellow sociopath. He lives in a small shack in the Nevada desert, where he constantly sends out his signature treatise, There are no Girls on the Internets: Proven FTW to anyone that cares to read it for long enough before throwing it away. He was recently fired from his position as the High Gonz of Ferriton due to his lack of a lackadaisical attitude, and his treatises are repeatedly rejected by any institution worth its weight in tin. He frequently makes a public appearance on the interweb, the only place with other people who would, if they were in their normal frame of mind, agree with him. VJ Emsi speaks highly of his alleged janitor, stating that Mr. Hunter is 'as honest as the day is long... in Hammerfest, at least.' Rumours are now circulating that Mr. Hunter is planning a hostile takeover in the artificial cranberry sauce manufacture industry, following his purchase of the orphans. He has also televised the following speech, which is open to interpretation:
'You swine. You vulgar little maggot. You worthless bag of filth. As we say in Texas, you couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions printed on the heel. You are a canker, an open wound. I would rather kiss a lawyer than be seen with you. You took your last vacation in the Islets of Langerhans.
You're a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a cad, and a weasel. I take that back; you are a festering pustule on a weasel's rump. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.
I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformity. I barf at the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut. Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. You are a technicolor yawn. And did I mention that you smell?
You are a squeaking rat, a mistake of nature and a heavy-metal bagpipe player. You were not born. You were hatched into an unwilling world that rejects the likes of you. You didn't crawl out of a normal egg, either, but rather a mutant maggot egg rejected by an evil scientist as being below his low standards. Your alleged parents abandoned you at birth and then died of shame in recognition of what they had done to an unsuspecting world. They were a bit late.
Try to edit your responses of unnecessary material before attempting to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able to access it ever so much more rapidly. If cluelessness were crude oil, your scalp would be crawling with caribou.
You are a thick-headed trog. I have seen skeet with more sense than you have. You are a few bricks short of a full load, a few cards short of a full deck, a few bytes short of a full core dump (More...)
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